The path of honor: A tale of the war in the Bocage

At dawn two days later I took horse for Poitiers with clothes and equipage furnished me by M. de Marigny, who had been exceedingly kind to me from the first, though delighting to speak in riddles, from which he seemingly drew vast amusement. For myself, I was not in vein to be amused. I had fought my battle, and I had won it; I had set forward on the path of honor; but the victory had left a wound still raw and bleeding.

Yet such is the vanity of human nature that it was not without a certain pride in my achievement that I bade my host good-by and turned my horse’s head toward the south. At least I need be ashamed to look no man or woman in the face. As for that scar in my heart, no eye except my own should ever contemplate it.

What a different creature this from that careless, heart-free boy who had pricked forth from Beaufort little more than a week before! Since then I had lived my whole life; I had sprung from youth to manhood; I had faced death, tasted of the world, gazed into a woman’s eyes. I had taken blows and given them; I had walked in the black depths of despair, and stood transfigured on the uttermost peaks of joy. Love had touched me and left me changed. I had lived,—for a week I had lived,—nothing could take that from me!

After much thought I had formed my plan of action. It was quite possible, as Mlle. de Chambray had said, that Mlle. de Benseval desired me as little as I desired her. In case this were true,—and I flattered myself that it would require no great penetration on my part to discern it,—I would offer her her freedom. Should she refuse it, should she feel bound by our oath, as I did, I would marry her, then fling myself into the war in La Vendée, trusting that some kindly bullet would release us both from our unhappy fate. But if, on the contrary, she looked on me with favor, if I saw that I might win her heart, I would play a man’s part and be as fond a lover as it is possible to be by taking thought.

So, having arrived at this conclusion, I put it behind me for the moment and pricked forward along the road more cheerfully than I had thought possible. Such is the virtue of facing one’s duty squarely, of making up one’s mind—even if it is only to accept manfully the worst that fate may offer.

My road at first lay through the narrow valleys and between the high hedges of the Bocage. Everywhere the peasants were working in their fields; their flocks were grazing peacefully in the pastures, and one would never have suspected that it was in this quiet country the first effective stand had been made against the bloody torrent of the Revolution. At last I passed Airvault and came out into the more level country of the Plain. I had planned to reach Neuville by noon, so pressed on at a good pace, secure in the knowledge that here to the south I should encounter no Republican force and consequently no delay.

I reached Neuville in good season without adventure of any kind and asked to be directed to the Bon Vivant, an inn to which I had been recommended by M. de Marigny as the only decent one in the village. I found it without difficulty and sat down at a table on a little vine-clad terrace overlooking a pleasant valley. Here my lunch was presently brought to me, and here, soon after, the landlord sought me out and leaned deferentially above my chair.

“Is there anything more monsieur requires?” he asked.

“Nothing; I am thoroughly content,” I answered. “I have to thank a friend for advising me to stop here.”

“Have I the honor of addressing M. de Tavernay?” he questioned, bending still lower.

“That is indeed my name,” I said, glancing up at him in surprise. “I did not know it had penetrated to these parts.”

“Oh, monsieur is too modest!” he returned with a flattering smile. “There is a person here who wishes to speak with monsieur when he is at leisure.”

“To speak with me?” I repeated, more and more astonished. “Who is it?”

“I do not know his name, but he is most anxious not to miss monsieur. He has been awaiting monsieur since yesterday.”

The thought flashed through my mind that it was some emissary of the Republic sent to arrest me, but a moment’s reflection showed me the absurdity of such a suspicion. How should the Republic know that I would pass this way, that I would stop at this inn? Besides, I was too small a bird to trouble the Republic—though, small as I was, I added to myself with a smile, the task of arresting me would scarcely have been entrusted to a single man. No; since he approached me alone in this manner he could not be an enemy. A sudden trembling seized me. Perhaps——

“Bring him here at once,” I said; and my host, who had been patiently awaiting the end of my perplexity, bowed and hurried away.

He reappeared in a moment followed by a man dressed decently in black and showing all the marks of the servant. A glance at his face told me that I had never before seen him.

“This is M. de Tavernay,” said my host to him; and bowing again to me, withdrew. Evidently I had become in his eyes a person of considerable importance.

“Well?” I asked, as calmly as I could, for my heart was throbbing wildly as I turned to the newcomer. “You wished to speak to me?”

“I have a letter for monsieur,” he answered, and produced it from an inner pocket.

“A letter?” I repeated, and seized it with trembling hand. Then a sudden chill fell upon me as I saw the signature. The note ran:

I read it through twice in order to give myself time to recover from the blow, especially from the poniard stroke of that final sentence.

“Very well,” I said at last. “This was very thoughtful of your master. Have the horses got ready and I will join you in a moment.”

He hastened away, and when, having finished my wine, I descended into the courtyard of the inn, I found him awaiting me with the horses accoutred for the journey. I swung into the saddle and cantered out from the inn, he following a pace behind.

But my serenity of the morning had vanished utterly. Now that I was face to face with the task which awaited me, now that there was no longer chance of evasion or escape, the blood turned to water in my veins. To make love to a woman I did not love, to appear before her always with a smile upon my lips and soft words upon my tongue, to play the gallant when my heart was far away, to lead her to the church, to be bound to her irrevocably, and finally to pass the remainder of my life in her company, always with deceit in my face—in a word, to live a lie!—that was the task I had set myself. Would I be able to accomplish it? Was it not beyond my poor strength? After all, did honor demand of me such a sacrifice?

But I put that thought from me for the last time as I recalled certain scorching words which had been uttered to me on the road from Dairon. I must accomplish it, or prove myself unworthy of that temple in which she had enshrined me! I put my hand into my bosom and touched the note I carried there, repeating its one word over and over to myself:

“Courage! Courage! Courage!”

And in that moment my doubts fell away, never to return. I was armed, cap-a-pie, against whatever arrows fate might launch.

At last I turned and motioned my attendant to come forward.

“What is your name?” I asked, noting his intelligent face.

“Bertin, monsieur.”

“You left your master in good health, I trust?”

“In excellent health, monsieur.”

“And your mistress?”

“She also, monsieur. I have never seen her looking better.”

“Let me see,” I went on, “Madame de Benseval is dead, is she not?”

“Oh, these many years, monsieur.”

“There was only one child?”

“Only one, monsieur.”

“How old is she?”

“Nineteen, monsieur.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if she was beautiful, but I choked the question back. It was indiscreet—and after all what did it matter?

“They have been greatly worried at monsieur’s failure to appear,” he added.

I almost groaned aloud.

“M. de Benseval said he had been expecting me,” I murmured mechanically.

“Oh, yes; for a week almost. He had made arrangements for the fête, but of course it was postponed when monsieur did not arrive.”

“Postponed until when, Bertin?” I questioned.

“It is to take place to-morrow if monsieur approves,” he answered, and glanced at me quickly.

This time I could not wholly suppress the groan, but managed to change it into a cough. The end was nearer than I had thought.

We rode on in silence after that, for I had no more questions to ask, nor apparently had Bertin any information to volunteer. And at last, just as dusk was falling, we trotted around a turn in the road and saw before us the walls and towers of Poitiers rising tier upon tier to the cathedral which crowns the summit of the hill upon which the town is built. It looked warm and gay in the rays of the setting sun, but darkness had fallen ere we crossed the bridge which leads into the town; and once engulfed in its narrow, steep, and tortuous streets, I had soon lost all sense of direction, and appreciated more than ever M. de Benseval’s thoughtfulness in sending me a guide.

For my companion seemed to know the road perfectly, turned this way and that without hesitation, and at last drew rein before a house at whose door a torch was flaring.

“Here we are,” he said, as he threw himself from the saddle and helped me to dismount. “This way, monsieur.”

Scarcely had we set foot on the lowest step when the door burst open and a man appeared on the threshold—a man tall, of commanding presence, with the noblest countenance I had ever seen.

“Tavernay!” he cried, his arms extended. “Tavernay!”

And I, as though I had found a second father, sprang up the steps and threw myself into them.

I know not how it was, but at the end of a moment I was telling myself that it was worth some sacrifice to be near a man like this. He led me in across the vestibule to the drawing-room beyond and sat me down and looked at me.

“You are your father over again, my boy,” he said at last; and his face was very tender. “I see already that I am going to love you!”

I could find no word of answer, but I think he read my heart in my face for he held out his hand and gripped mine.

“And now,” he continued, “before you meet my daughter I desire to talk frankly with you for a moment. I have sometimes wondered if your father and I were wise to bind you when you were only a child. After all, a man should choose for himself, for marriage without love is not marriage, and good or bad, there is no escape once the vows are taken. I know the Paris fashion; I know that there are many fathers who do not believe as I do; they think me a fool—which is not so harsh a name as I sometimes apply to them. Your father was the dearest friend I ever had. I certainly do not intend to make his son unhappy.”

“Monsieur,” I said, “I am already betrothed to your daughter. If she does not love another——”

“No,” he said quickly, “I can answer for that.”

“Then, monsieur, I am ready to espouse her, and I will do my best to make her happy.”

He gripped my hand again, his eyes very bright.

“I am sure of it,” he said; “but it is not a question of her happiness, but of yours. That she will find you a good and tender husband I do not doubt; but there are some things which you should know. She has had no mother for many years, and I have perhaps been too occupied in my own affairs to give her the attention she required. She has to a certain extent gone her own way, and such training as I have given her has, I fear, been a man’s training rather than a woman’s. So she grew up somewhat wild and headstrong, with strange ideas upon many subjects; though I did not suspect this until a month ago when I bade her prepare her trousseau. It was at that time she gave evidence of a disposition wholly new to me. In a word, she begged me that she might not be compelled to marry, and when I reminded her that my honor was engaged she retorted that her happiness weighed more heavily with her than my honor, and that at least she reserved the right to see you before consenting.”

“Oh, monsieur,” I broke in, “say no more. I have no wish to force her to become my wife.”

He held up his hand to stop me.

“Understand,” he said, his eyes on mine, “that I did not agree with her. With women it is not the same as men. Any man who is affectionate and faithful can win a woman’s love, and keep it. She has not a man’s distractions, temptations, opportunities. I am very sure that you will make my daughter love you.”

“God grant it,” I said, my lips quivering. “It is my wish to make her happy. But I am not a brilliant match—not so brilliant as she deserves. You are aware that this Revolution has ruined us.”

Again he held up his hand.

“No more of that, M. de Tavernay. By the way, you have not yet asked me what her dowry is to be.”

“No,” I answered; “I had not thought of it.”

He smiled queerly.

“Well, we can settle all that to-morrow,” he said. “My chief concern is for your happiness. Tell me frankly, my friend, do you desire this marriage?”

“A man is bound by his oath, monsieur,” I answered, trembling a little, but meeting without flinching the searching gaze he bent upon me. “Courage! Courage!” my heart repeated.

“I press this point,” he added, “even perhaps to indiscretion, because M. de Marigny dropped what I fancied was a hint that you had formed another attachment.”

I put the past behind me and faced the future squarely. The moment had come to lie, and I met it as bravely as I could.

“M. de Marigny was mistaken,” I said steadily. “Be assured that if your daughter does me the honor to accept my hand she will find that my heart goes with it.”

He sprang to his feet and gripped both my hands in his.

“Spoken like a man!” he cried, his eyes shining strangely. “I feel that I have found a son—I give you my daughter gladly. Come,” he added, “she awaits you;” and he opened a door and motioned me to precede him.